and the void stares (back)
by rhead-a-holyc
Summary: "I'll-I'll become the..." It wasn't a sentence he quite wanted to finish. It wasn't an idea he wanted to face.


Nurmengard had been abandoned to nature in the years that followed Grindelwald's death. The wild vegetation that dared cling to the walls of the building thrived on the lack of competition, and insistently climbed the walls. There were few witches or wizards who ventured beyond the wards at the end of the property to even tempt a glimpse at the looming walls of a Dark Lord's prison, and later home, and fewer still who dared set foot within the dizzying passages that lay within.

Oliver could list several other choices far less dreary to hide from his many Quidditch fans, but he was still a Gryffindor: the idea of hundreds of unexplored and unknown passageways within the prison had him excited. All the architects and creators of the prison were long dead, and there was no living person who could give him a map of the prison so Oliver had to ensure he could find his way out of the prison or risk being lost within it for days.

The idea that someone had been forced to live half of their life within these hallowed halls really put everything he took for granted into perspective. Oliver couldn't imagine being confined to a cell, never to see another Quidditch match, or even ride a broomstick ever again.

But being lost and alone was sometimes comforting, especially amidst days of cheering and pep-talks and victory parties and people who knew you almost better than you did yourself. Nurmengard often reminded him of the dungeons of Hogwarts, of an overbearing and terrifying Potions Master and the knowledge that the Slytherins would be furious at his presence there, and willing to hex him with painful boils that would last several days. But here, Oliver was alone, and there would be no one to hide from, until Oliver realised he wasn't quite as alone as he had originally believed.

A little dance of shadows somewhere ahead of him caught his attention, and Oliver forced himself to walk a little more quietly. He should have spotted it sooner, but he had paused his wanderings to observe a roughly hewn symbol on the entrance – his attempt at figuring out why everyone avoided the prison. His wand had been out to provide him light, brighter than it usually was, but he gave in to the temptation to dim it with every step he took. He had never met anyone else within these walls, and Oliver knew he couldn't expect a friendly greeting.

There was a woman in the room. Her wild black hair scattered over her green material that covered her shoulders and onto the table beside her. Her cloak had been haphazardly hung over a chair that had been pushed to the opposite end of what had probably once been a cell for the Dark Lord's prisoners.

It no longer resembled a cell: herbs and books lay scattered around the room, hanging from the walls and off surfaces. There were pages of runes and calculations littering the floor, all of them incomplete or spotting a large slash through the entire design.

Oliver must have tripped some charm because the woman whirled around as soon as he neared the entrance. Wild eyes met his own, and Oliver stumbled backwards as her first curse came far too close to hitting him. Oliver would also admit to not liking the smile on the woman's face in the _slightest_.

"Another one of you in a week? It must just be my luck," the woman growled as Oliver tried his best to weave and block her curses. The woman held no wand, and Oliver was terrible at guessing curses from their colours, so all he could hope to do was pray that his shield charm held or that he managed to evade the attack. The meagre spells he managed to return were battered away with an insulting ease.

It was mere moments later when Oliver misjudged a spell. He realised he should have run while he had a chance.

...xXx...

When Oliver woke, he wasn't alone and that was what scared him more: the fact that he hadn't been the only one to stumble on the witch, and the other person hadn't even known to be missing yet. It set a precedent for how long he expected to be there: way too long.

"Oliver?"

He didn't recognise the voice immediately, and with all the grime and dirt covering the other's body, it took several minutes before Oliver managed to whisper, " _Marcus?_ "

"Fancy seeing you here," the other male grinned.

"Next time you decide we need to meet, how about we meet over lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, and _not_ in a prison? Just send an owl. I'd even clear whatever the Puddles have planned for the day. This is just uncomfortable."

"Here I was thinking you Gryffindors thrived on the adventure," Marcus snarked.

"How did you even end up in here? I've been wandering around here for years, and I've never even caught a whiff of someone else being here too?" Oliver tried to twist slightly to face Marcus, but the enchantment keeping him still didn't budge, so he had to settle with looking at him with the edge of his vision.

"I must have been bloody unlucky, then. She caught me when I came in here on a dare. The very first time. I can't even tell how long ago that was. Can't have been too long, though, or I'd bet someone would have come after me. Although, I'm not sure if I would actually like anyone else to be caught by _her_."

"Her? The woman, you mean? Do you know who she is? I only saw her before she started flinging curses at me."

"So you two know each other already? Lovely. Now I need only introduce myself. I am Morgan, the witch who surpassed Merlin himself and gained immortality through magic." The woman's eyes were dark and tumultuous as a storm, and Oliver suddenly wished he'd never been interested in Nurmengard.

She was beautiful, and if the legends were right, Oliver could understand how Merlin would have fallen for the woman that stood before them. Morgan looked youthful, and Oliver supposed that had something to do with her supposed immortality. Had she been anyone else, Oliver thought he might have just tried his luck with her. Marcus would probably have done the same.

The slithering cold seeped into Oliver's bones, slowly, seemingly encompassing his entire being with the idea that he would never escape. That he would be trapped there forever. Morgan seemed to be unaffected, mood lifting the colder it got.

"Dementors," Marcus whispered between the chattering of his teeth.

The cloaked wraith entered the room, and blooms of ice ran across the floor and climbed up the walls to nibble at Oliver's skin. Morgan's hand rose to stroke against the Dementor's cloak, not passing right through it as Oliver had once believed would happen. The Dementor swayed with each pat, and Oliver could feel the ice hurrying across his skin in an attempt to give him frostbite.

"They were my creations, you know, the Dementors. I created them and offered them as guards for the British prison in exchange for the Ministry to leave me alone to my experiments. It's like a lease on a bunch of good dragons that will always still answer to their original owner. The Ministry was more than happy to vow to our agreement. They even managed to sway the German Ministry to offer me this prison as a base. For however righteous they appear to be, they do have a rather rotten core," Morgan seemed delighted at the thought. Oliver didn't think he had been more sickened. It had been an agreement that had clearly not ended in the time since the last Dark Lord's defeat, or possibly even noticed since then.

"What do you mean _create_ Dementors?"

It was Marcus who had asked the question, shakily. It really wasn't a question Oliver wanted answered, but the delight in Morgan's eyes managed to make her appear wildly beautiful even through Oliver's haze of disgust.

"You didn't _honestly_ think they just _appeared_. Magic is wonderful, but it needs direction. It needs focus to accomplish anything." Morgan's eyes floated to her chalk runic circle and sighed. "The Dementors are beautiful creatures, really. Not harmful until their first feed, and they only grow stronger with every meal. Possibly my best work."

"Are we just going to be food, then?" Marcus asked. "Surely you don't need both of us, if that's the case. Let him go."

The woman's smile widened. "Perhaps they never taught this to you in school, but Dementors were all humans once. Their souls were like yours once. Clean. Pure. _Innocent_. Now they thirst for other souls to fill the void. To sate the need to feel whole again. One gives himself up, the other survives, immortal for the rest of time," the woman said, eyes glinting. "Despite all the rumours, Morgan has never been unkind. You're the second one, the unfortunate one, how about I let you choose your fate?"

Oliver glanced at Marcus, who even silenced violently shook his head. The self-preservation skills the Slytherins had always been proud of was nowhere to be seen as he twisted and wriggled within the chains that refused to budge. Oliver could take a moment to appreciate the fact that his once fiercest Slytherin rival had a spark of Gryffindor in him. Oliver's mind had already been made up – he was a foolhardy and brave Gryffindor.

No one would find them here, and there was no other escape.

"Me. I'll-I'll become the..." It wasn't a sentence he quite wanted to finish. It wasn't an idea he wanted to face.

" _Wonderful_!"

* * *

 **Written for:**

 **The Golden Snitch [Uagadou, Biloko]:**

 **Baby Bat Boxes [#13: Oliver Wood or Marcus Flint; Tell me angel, have you prayed tonight? - Claire's Horrors by London after Midnight**

 **Through the Universe: Zenith – (words) the other survives**

 **Hogwarts [Ravenclaw]:**

 **Assignment #10: Notable Witches and Wizards: Task 6 – Write about someone having control over a dark creature or creatures**


End file.
